Golden Stanley to Troubridge Summit.     

        It's a longish haul, but it's no Tin Hat.

From Lois Lake on up to the summit, the hiker will gain a fair bit of elevation, reaching the highest point on the trail.  It's a relatively gentle climb without the "you have to be kidding" moments of the climb up to Tin Hat.

After the relatively easy hike across the valley and along the shores of Lois Lake, the hiker should enjoy a good night's rest at the Golden Stanley, the hut above Stanley Creek, at the bottom of the long climb to the top of Troubridge.  At 1300 meters plus, Troubridge Mountain is the highest climb of the SCT, but by no means the most arduous.  

Certainly there are a couple of steeper climbs along the trail, but for the most part the climb is just gradual and inevitable. I can only think of a couple of downhill grades along this entire section, and they are only very short little drops followed by another climb on the far side.

The first challenging climb of the trail starts at Lois Main, passes the Golden Stanley Hut and then continues to logging road that forks off of Branch 41.  At this point the trail finally levels out a bit and widens as the path follows an old logging road that has been converted to SCT.

I still love the little creek below the hut.  Quiet and idyllic or roaring and tempestuous, I'm good with either.

Just to remind the hiker what the hut looks like.

The first section of the trail descends steeply along a deep ravine.  A relatively insane bunch of mountain bike enthusiasts somehow decided that this would be a infinitely fun way to commit suicide, so the hiker will pass more than a few ramps and jumps, some of which might be survivable.

Views from the trial and the new logging cut at the top of the first trail segment.  In the lower right is a photo of Lois Bluffs where I thought I might have found my end not too may weeks before.

There is a great water supply found on a branch trail about a hundred yards above the hut. It's well marked.

The crossing of the Buckwheat. New construction is always beautiful to me.

Far below the trail lies an inviting green pond; one dreams of a cold summer swim as the sweat drips down your brow. There is just the matter of the brutal drop-off to be navigated.  I'm no Tarzan.

At the remains of the Carved Chair campsite. The creek rushes under a 

steel bridge on the logging road, across a granite pan and drops precipitously over the falls.  Taking pictures there can be a bit dangerous if you are an old fool and the rocks are cold, wet and slippery.  The slippery part I didn't realize until I was perched precariously at the edge of the rushing water and holding onto the bare stone with the grip of death.

Above the steel logging bridge the trail flattens out as it climbs gradually paralleling the creek, tracking along an old logging road. From here the trail will shift between "trail" and "repurposed road" as the hiker weaves across the shoulders of Mt. Troubridge.

From the top of the steeper trail up from the Golden Stanley, the SCT shifts to a much more gradual climb as it follows a series of trails that interconnect a couple of repurposed logging roads. For the most part the climb heads up and mostly east, following what can only be described as a "green tunnel" created by overhanging deciduous trees lining the old road.

I hiked this trail twice, the first time in the early spring.  I badly misjudged the challenge of the snow pack above 700 meters elevation; the depth of the snow exponentially increases for each few meters of climb. From a scant skiff of snow hidden in the shadowed bush beside the trail the snow cover increased until I was "post-holing" to my mid-thigh with ever step.  It was exhausting and eventually I realized I had better turn back lest I become an item on the 6 o'clock news detailing the hopeless search for a local man lost in the woods.

The second trip up the long hill done 6 weeks later, once spring was in full bloom, was a completely different experience. Parts of this trail are almost magical: one is reminded of Tolkien's woodland realm of Lothlorien or the Elven forest grove at the edge of the hobbit's Shire. All that is missing is a few talking trees and a little Welsh cywydd to make us all long for Middle Earth.

The green tunnel of early summer

Along the trail: the stepwise falls

The green tunnel in two seasons. Once you hit the snow line, the pack quickly increases from a minor irritation to an exhausting obstruction.

The crossing of the Stanley, home of Lita's Bench.  Banksey, the infamous graffiti artists of Britain, once said we die twice: once when we stop breathing and again when people stop saying our name.  We all deserve a legacy. Enjoy the bench and watch the water flow by for a few moments.  Contemplate the river from "Siddartha" by Herman Hesse.

My early spring "turn around point" where stumbling exhaustion had taken root.  The view from that spot a scant few weeks later.

In early summer, late spring: the snow banks did not look like much, but another 300 meters down trail the banks were 4 feet deep and I had to pick my path carefully for fear of hitting a soft spot and falling through to my hip.

The Elephant Lakes.  I have many more pictures but the limited vantage points from the shore means that they are all interchangeable.  Pretty, yes, but pretty much the same.

The climb up from Elephant Lake is only a bit more strenuous as it meanders along the the northwestern flank of Mount Troubridge.  From the lake upwards, this is all strictly trail; the path weaves through a mixture of maturing second growth and ancient first growth protected in OGMA segments.  The old trees are often grey with moss and lichen, like old men patiently waiting for their next incarnation.  In many ways the trail is more beautiful on a cloudy/ foggy day when the moisture laden mists shroud the old trees, giving the local Sasquatch better cover for their mischief.

The "new" SCT route up from Elephant Lake, cutting through an OGMA area.  I am tempted to follow the old SCT route that tracks along the eastern flank of Troubridge someday, but I think I have fulfilled my quota for hours lost in the bush this year.  The old trail is mostly grown over now days and I'm not sure if any of the ubiquitous orange trail markers still are present.

On the way up.

After a moderately arduous climb up the western flank of Troubridge, traversing  a few steep hillsides and then weaving uphill around stone buttresses and through old forest groves (and through a few relatively young forest groves too), the hiker will reach a forks.  To the left, North, the trail will go uphill to the all-season log hut hidden above the shallow Jocelyn Pond while to the right, South, the trail will continue on towards the summit.  

The summit trail will course downhill to a ford where some comedian threw what appears to be a small ladder as a bridge.  This small creek draining Jocelyn Pond is usually a dependable source of water, but this year it was bone dry by the end of July.  Jocelyn Pond itself gets pretty low by the dog-days of summer, but I doubt it would ever go dry.  It's potable water, but you need to filter it and likely add sterilizing chemicals to make it safe.

There is a nice little waterfall below the ford if you want to do a little bushwhacking for a photo-op.

An all season hut: insulated and has a good wood stove for heat.

I usually just skip this part and hop across the gap. I would be far more likely to topple off the ladder than miss the jump.

Found below the fords, the falls from Jocelyn Creek. The area around is cut by deep gullies that speak of a substantially heavier run-off at times.

  

Jocelyn Pond in the spring of 2020/

Jocelyn Pond in July of 2021

It's hard not to love the trail leading to the summit of Troubridge.  The SCT gently climbs from the fords of Jocelyn Creek through a truly wonderful old growth forest. The trees are by no means the giants found at sea level along the coast, but there is a feeling of the durability, continuity and permanence in the grey lichen covered trees. One can only hope that between being on the top of a tall mountain and beside a nationally recognized hiking trail, the old trees are truly permanent.

In the old forest at the top of the mountain.

As the hiker approaches the summit, the SCT crosses a series of stone steps, barren of much beyond lichen and dust. There will be hints and glimpses of Jervis Inlet far below; just enough to frustrate the photographer hidden in nearly every hiker. The payoff will come, but not until the very summit.

On a dry day the stone is wonderful to walk; on a wet day, things can be a little slippery

From the summit.  If you know where to look and you find the exact right spot you can spot the next way point: Rainy Day Lake.

The Summit Hut is no longer just an emergency hut; it's a full blown hut. It's a lot smaller than the rest of the huts, but there is space for ten in a crunch (but some of them may indeed be "crunched" to fit). There is one of the new composting outhouses a few short steps from the hut, right at the trail head for the descent to Rainy Day Lake.

  If I was the camping type, the Summit Hut would be where I stopped hiking for the day.  The hiker can set their tent a few paces from the summit marker and see the stars from the top of the world.  One proviso on that though: at times of the year you might need a face net to be able to breath due to the small gnats that seem to absolutely fill the air up there.

Once a lowly emergency shelter; now a lot more than just a safe port in a storm.

Beauty found along the way: it's all in the eye of the beholder.

Over the last couple of years I have taken to hiking solo. Many of my friends are pretty critical of my lonely walk-about habits. I guess I should address the criticism.

Three sayings come to mind:

Ships are always safest in port, but that is not what ships are for.

At the end, people are most likely to regret the things they didn't do.

and, from Reinhold Messner, the first man to summit Chomolungma (Sagamartha) without supplemental oxygen:

I didn't go up there to die...I went up there to live.

In my youth I made a good start of having an active life filled with travel and adventures; I left home at 18 with nothing but an old army pack filled with whatever clothes I could stuff in it, grabbed a Greyhound into the BC interior and bluffed my way into a ranch job.  I didn't know one end of a cow from the other end of a horse, but I was going to be a cowboy.

Over the following few summers I managed to impersonate a cowboy for a few more ranches.  I learned how to rope cattle (never throw your lariat on the edge of a ten foot drop off: no horse can hold a cow on a ledge like that and you are guaranteed to end up down that cliff with a very angry cow), ride bucking broncos (or fall off them without any grace or dignity) and covered a lot of miles in the saddle.  I savored Rocky Mountain oysters and enjoyed telling a CBC journalist exactly what they were after he had mowed through two full plates worth.  I did road trips where I proved that a '67 Buick Skylark can indeed do 100 mph for over 400 miles without spewing black smoke. 

Then, somewhere along the way, I grew up and assumed the mantle of professionalism.  I spent the last 35 years being "safe" with the obligatory mortgage, the continuous car payments and the periodic tropical holiday where I could pretend to be young again.  Thirty five years have blurred by and, to tell you the truth, I can remember very little of those years.  I can remember my pounding heart as I rode a sturdy-footed quarter-horse down a hundred foot bluff, but all the years in between are a litany of expectations to meet, bills to pay and wages to earn.

Now, I'm no Reinhold Messner or Ed Viesturs (veterinarian, graduated from Pullman Washington in 1987, same year I graduated), both famous high altitude climbers, but one thing I have learned: you only have an interesting life story if you make it interesting.  I have some ground to make up.

Ships are safe in port, but that is not what ships are for.

 Ni wyr neb lai na'r hwn a wyr y cyfan: No one knows less than he who knows all.  Which pairs well with  Nid hawdd gwybod y cyfan:  It's not easy to know everything.

As I get old, I finally know how little I know and it humbles me.  In the ignorance of youth, at least I still was bold and brave. Now I know better and caution fills my day.